"washboard" poems
Driving up mountain miles
of washboard switchbacks;
jarring the dusty rearview mirror
in my mind:
"but don't look back in anger"
... I heard you say
stuck in the cloud of dust
befogging my daydream
back somewhere thereabouts
the washed out bridge
that tore us apart
like a flash flood
It was so long ago
since you were running
and I was hiding in plain sight,
from what the storm
in my eyes did tell
Mindful — you were only watching
the growing distance gather;
finding what you didn't lose
looking back to see
what you can't forget —
like a hesitant child
reluctantly wondering
if anyone was still looking back
at you ― still running away
from each passing storm
Jesse Stillwater
June 2018
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
she loved thunder storms most of all
the crackle of white hot bolts ripping through the sky
the sheer immensity of power
she always thought it was him
her beloved God
big boy
Thor
with his flowing blond hair
blue aquatic eyes
washboard stomach
and delicately curved *****
finally a man good enough for her
even if he was fly by night
when the heavens thickened gray
like soggy cotton
she could feel atmospheres shift
it made her ******* pert
her mouth would salivate
like a lurid peach
her ***** swelled and dampened
tears of adoration and enchantment
filled her eyes
no longer able to contain her self
she would strip naked
fling off her *******
and run out to the lush verdant meadows
calling at the top of her lungs
yoooooooooo hooooooooooo
as the cool rain descended
she ran thrilled to the mud between her toes
seeing great claws of white lightening echo
through the sky
without hesitation
she fell to the cool earth beneath her
wallowing in the delicious sloshing ooze
positioning her self on all fours
head thrown back
*** up high
calling to the heavens
come on, come on big boy
ive been waiting for you
let me have it good
her clitoral lips
drooled with anticipation
her ******
a pulsating aching
the sky rumbled
with stretching streaks of fire
like a great freight train
spanning infinity
while the earth shook like a
hollow moon
she swayed her hips
rhythmically to and fro
whispering a love song
*oh sir
i need a man like you
wont you love me
adorations true
i kneel before
my sweet Lord Thor
where's that hammer
come on and score
you are so big
and im so little
how about it God
just a tickle
hit it now
give it to me good
kisses baby
like only you could*
tears of desire cascaded
down her pink cheeks
as she recited her love mantra
her mouth naked wet
suddenly
a great bolt of lightening
shot down from heavens throne
entering her ******
splitting her in flames
her head turned dark mahogany
sent careening fifty yards
leaving her mouth
a yawning twisted smudge
of fossilized obsidian
with eyes
blackened flaring hollows
her tender pink ****
a charred flower
smoldering
like a
petite
grilled
calamari
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
Somebody who should have been born
is gone.
Just as the earth puckered its mouth,
each bud puffing out from its knot,
I changed my shoes, and then drove south.
Up past the Blue Mountains, where
Pennsylvania humps on endlessly,
wearing, like a crayoned cat, its green hair,
its roads sunken in like a gray washboard;
where, in truth, the ground cracks evilly,
a dark socket from which the coal has poured,
Somebody who should have been born
is gone.
the grass as bristly and stout as chives,
and me wondering when the ground would break,
and me wondering how anything fragile survives;
up in Pennsylvania, I met a little man,
not Rumpelstiltskin, at all, at all...
he took the fullness that love began.
Returning north, even the sky grew thin
like a high window looking nowhere.
The road was as flat as a sheet of tin.
Somebody who should have been born
is gone.
Yes, woman, such logic will lead
to loss without death. Or say what you meant,
you coward...this baby that I bleed.
6k
तत् त्वम् असि
*for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons,
washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo*
(*the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute*)
Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the ***** water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots
Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their ***** with priestly garments, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight
Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day
Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.
Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt –
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now –
drank fresh ***** from a heifer’s bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.
Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman –
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
THE MORAL:
(slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp)
Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.
“This is God –worship Him, worship Him –
this is God – let us worship Him now…”
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
I never cared much for car talk,
But when he speaks, I'm intrigued,
And I don't know why.
Most men speak in tones that imply
I don't know anything,
Can't understand simple machines,
Have never seen an engine block,
And just want to watch as they talk.
But he is genuinely fascinated
With systems and forces,
And wants to share.
His passion consumes me,
And I listen, hoping to learn.
On switchbacking forest roads,
Over potholed washboard,
By steep cliff dropoffs,
My head swims with emergency "what ifs"
But not with him.
He flies over loose gravel
And I squeal with euphoric trust and delight.
He drives twice the posted speed,
And I find myself shamelessly sunk
Into a wet seat.
He pumps the brakes
And I'm bowing to the king,
Brazenly hoping that someday
He'll flip a carnal handbrake turn,
Wondering if he cares enough to show off,
Seduced like so many before me
By oil, rubber, and gasoline.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 1:33 PM UTC
A Tribute
A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind….
The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush.
The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins.
The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor.
With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
Take my saxophone
Take my piano
Take my guitar
Take my mandolin
Take my washboard
Take my harmonica
Take my sunglasses
Take my hairbrush
Take my Bible
Take my clothes
Take my trophies
Take my baton
Take my ballet shoes
Take my cane
Take my sword
Take my monkey
Take my collections
Take my cat
Take my house
Take my memories
Take my plans
My, that was a heavy load.
I feel so light.
Nov 25, 2010
Nov 25, 2010 at 9:01 AM UTC
It's like sparring with a lumberjack
a tell tale sign you're lost
A party trick , a baseball bat
and loving what you've got
a sparrow rests- an open chest
a gunshot wound for hire
tempted to forget that love
will force you through the fire
thirty nine and feeling fine
and hating what you have
kisses in the moonlight
and ignoring how it stabs
open eyes of baby blue
have been lying all this time
dreaming dreams sustained by you
it still feels like a crime.
Headlights hollow open vast
and scream a shallow tune
baby birds they fly too fast
and are taken by the moon.
Pacing blankets made of smiles
and fairies in her hair
name tags and red ceiling tiles
dying, trying not to stare.
She's beautiful as sunshine
and sweet as summer heat
and standing by the roadside
she sells her rotten meat.
There's plenty love in all the world
for sirens of her kind
and your body's steady pull of heat
tempts her to leave us all behind
we're hanging from a telephone pole
at the end of steady stream
and seeing glass is on the floor
cutting up our dreams
This plane is falling into bits
for the rich ones to enjoy
i wonder when they'll figure out
that earth is not a toy.
porky's in the dining hall
playing Rhapsody and Blue
on a washboard and a bathroom stall
I'm entering on cue.
You can scream and yell and call me names
Curse words aren't that bad
My life is one big mess of loud
you're not supposed to make me mad.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 9:23 AM UTC
I have to run faster now,
I have to leave this town,
Change my name,
Change my face,
**** my identity and leave no trace,
The monster you made is creeping in the dark,
Yearning for the taste of a beating heart,
The bitter scent of soiled blood,
Alcohol and cigarettes,
Another fish caught in the net.
This kid is far from a ***** hot mess,
When he's unable to hide the stress,
To hold down tears that smell like Jack,
Barely able to keep himself back,
From the edge of his so called sanity,
Fractured by the pressure of male vanity.
This MANnequin is just a boy,
18 years and feels destroyed,
Metal pecs and washboard abs,
A dream of his while he covers the 'flab',
Betrayed by friends who style their hair
While he keeps on running so they don't stare
At the failure of physical attraction,
Repulsed by the existence of his own reflection,
Another flaw on a social scale,
A grizzly end to this unwanted tale.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
tumbling around, just outside of society’s idea of normalcy, he walks for miles on end.
with a golden notion, he dreams of love, life and truth.
he lives these dreams and always has.
he creates love around him, by devoting himself to truth in life.
woken by a stampede of angry cattle, he laughs.
his vow to never injustice these animals is so very solid and they don’t even know it.
with a washboard on his back, he’ll scream for wonder as he wanders, and it will ring out with purity and beauty.
i will hear it and so will the people that truly love him.
adventure is on his soles and he will track it all across the nation.
a bold child of the rebirth.
he is simple, he is free.
he is ***** gold.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:44 PM UTC
(Give me a London girl every time…)
*- I want to push my hands into your hips and smack you back to front against the wall, bunching your **** little skirt in my fingers, unclipping those fifties plastic beauties that cling to your thighs and I want you to be a right proper girl for me, a right proper girl -*
(…I’m gonna find one, I’ve made up my mind…)
So she got her phone out and
Smiled her Madonna-Gap smile,
Fine lines floundering
Like speech marks
Either side of her mouth.
So romantic!
A girl with a face of
Punctuation!
***** pennies,
she said,
Your eyes are
*****
*******
Pennies*
She would finger the holes
In my tatterdemalion
Charity coats,
And my shop-bought medals.
She would jab her fingers
Against each point
Of the Burma Star,
Spookily,
As though it were a
Pentagram.
She’s a washboard,
Her ******* are thumb-tacks
In a cosmetic shade of
Gold,
With a crucifix stamped
Like a dagger glyph
Right between them,
like a silver sneer,
on her precious metal chest.
*- I want to take your photo -
I want you in Pippi Longstockings
And to angle you just so, my no-knickered **** with her goosebumps on show -*
I’ll never forgot when she told me
She owned a leopard-skin
Pill-box hat ,
And I said
* “You’d have to be dead
Not to fancy that…”*
I’m not sure how aware she is though,
Of how many people
Tongue- to- the -floor want her.
She plays bored on purpose!
I’ve watched beautiful boys
Go to pieces
Trying to entertain her
With a curly straw.
She’s a real cheekbone feline,
And around her pupils
Rages a ring of jagged orange,
Like a jester’s ruff.
And I think of all this,
Whilst she stands there,
Moving from toe to toe
In her zig-zag heels,
And wooden bracelets,
And her little lycra
Landmine that
Shop assistants sell
To girls like her.
And then she clocks me.
and she doesn’t say a thing -
she just swims smilingly over
Through a parted gaggle,
Letting me grab her
Like I mean it,
Spanning her waist with my
Hands like
A corset -
And the fairylights
Are just smudges
Across her sequins,
And her mottled shoulders are
Ten shades
Of mostly white.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
I'm fatally dancing advancing with and toward
a slow zoom through hallways to the dark room
trying to shorten my strides or grip the walls at my sides gouging
a fingernail fear of mortality that makes out the shape
of the cursive-signed names of everyone or thing ever in a
not-so clever attempt to accept the thief that's in and is the night
I breathe heavily and wide to prove that I'm alive until my ribs
touch the white-walls rubbing along in a washboard song
that peels paint like turpentine with a rank smell wafting
from the room at the end of the line and time knuckling under
the backs of my knees scraping off of the floorboards slouching across
the adjacent door frames where exit signs should read thee
forehead pulsating expelling sweat to absolve me and for moments
the room might shine and I am still
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
tin cup flowers
and cars slurring by
a broken man touch the earth,
sad bandana wrapt around his hand,
God gives him road.
the dirt believes in what his hand reminds
i feel the moon,
and taste the sky.
you're wind in the washboard,
swallows dipped in silver and *** sweep in and out of-
sparrows sparkling and-
kicking stones to the side.
********* pockets.
i fell off the whole universe just for a moment.
no apologies
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
(Memories of a Far Away Land)
I miss the mornings when I could listen to the roosters that loudly crowed.
Open the window to the scent of fresh tortillas, from the abarrotes it flowed.
Everyday I would wake engulfed by mountains and their fresh fresh air.
Alonzo's voice carrying loudly, "Empanadas, Empanadas, get them here."
Daily cruises through the streets of Juarez Mexico I often will reminisce,
Ending up in Downtown Centro to buy whatever, it was anyone's guess.
I miss going to the little grocers to buy, mandarins, avocado and mango,
The long waits in line on the Bridges of America trying to cross to El Paso.
Bathing in metal tubs, washing clothes by washboard with your bare hands,
I'll forever keep the precious memories safely in my heart, of a far away land.
Lopez ©reationz 2014
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
snow ribbons the night behind blinds, white
crackle over vinyl, black in ravines
undulating silt whisks the sea, bed
conversation of springs, yawn
to sleep on a twin mattress, turtle,
interred: orange branch to grove floor, hear-witness
flutes in unbearable dawn unposessable, flesh
and lavender stir in sleepy eye beds, rosebuds and breath
condense warm on rickety panes, chipped
beams stray suspended through poplar clouds, dissolve
avocado in manila teem, damp hush to skin folds, pores,
unseen burrows, pawed and pinhead heartbeats, meek
but if in unison: rainfall tremendous on canvas cover, sinuous
as the shanty cat spine, lilting: raking grain to wispy tail, cursive
trickle over creekbed washboard scrubs, whisper
sudding lace over iris-leather bed, wheat
murmurs iridescent in squint-eyed flaxen wind.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
Long car trips
Crowded with junk
And cramping legs
Flashing light streaming through the window
Into the muggy car air,
A trapped fly banging on the glass,
Low rumbling like gravel thunder
And bursts of shaking
Rattling teeth and seatbelts
When you roll over stones
Wisps of vented air
Curling around your naked toes,
And sweaty, rumpled clothes.
Skin sticking to fake leather seats
The slight sifting sick in your belly
Sitting fat like a toad,
And hoping the stuff in the back
Isn't shaking or breaking apart
From the crunching washboard gravel,
And drowsy eyes, tired from endless trees
Slowly drift until you arrive in the dark
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
"We had all these crazy fuckin' dreams together, Me and Her. We ate our weight in marshmallow ***** pancakes underneath the stars and kissed each other with tongues of fire licking roofs of open mouth. Her mouth was like a fuckin' inferno, like in the sense that it seems so small and insignificant until you actually get there and then it just swallows you whole, gets you hotter than you've ever been in your fuckin' life and you're there for eternity. It's endless. If you weren't thinking about it before, now you're thinking about it.
You're thinkin' about her, and thank the fuckin' heavens for that. If I could get every man on the face of this planet to think about her the way I do, at the length that I do, til we all fuckin' keel over, it just wouldn't do it. She's somebody that gets stuck in your hair when you're not looking and somebody you trip over in the mornings when you just fuckin' cleaned the place up. She clings to the bottom of your shoes til you can hear her name in any number of footsteps on any number of paths."
______________________________________________________________
Baby, let me sit in the driver's seat.
Let me drift smoothly, subtly into your lane.
Remember how you always said I was too **** skinny?
Guess what, baby?
When the tail lights call to me I can slide right in between them, like a fitted sheet or rungs on a washboard. I darted between the raindrops like you always said I would but I got wet anyways. What do you know about that?
I don't know much about it, myself.
The doctor said I can't drive anymore. I told that son-of-a-bitch, "my eyesight's 20/20! I seen every single puzzle piece on those office inkblots for the knives and daggers that they are! The **** I look like?"
I'm exhausted, Baby. I'm leaking black smoke out of my lungs. I don't brush my teeth anymore because the fluoride ***** up my third eye. How do ya feel about that? Meditate on it. Meditate on me. Meditate on the stars, on the heavens, on God, on babies that died inside of us. I always told you, Baby, you're the best idea God ever had. You fuckin' did it. Tie me up, baby. If I can't drive anymore, drive me out of here. Tie me up to the ******* tracks and cover my naked body with those whaddya call ems? Tuck me into your blanket statements so big I get them confused with the entire ******* sky.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
I made notes of docking posts
pointing out to murky reflections
of tourists that didn’t have time
for a souvenir mug or a picture
with a black trumpeter content with his brass,
and nothing else, blowing life into the seagull
sky, making the clouds pop and drop spray-
mist jazz, which accompanied his trumpet
with a gentle washboard scrape.
He beat his heel to the thousand pin-drops
of passerby earrings, crab sweatpant draw-
strings, and trawl nets dissolving into the sea.
Baltimore filled the margins
of a travel notebook alongside
pencil sketches of the Aquarium,
Prufrockian split claws
wrapped in algae bandages,
that homeless man weakly thumbing
through a pocket bible, the 32
cents wearing sea salt jackets,
and my cold girlfriend pulling on patron
sweaters in an art museum closet.
But it’s all a gimmick.
It’s $22 crab cakes
and paint-splatter-printed
sweatshirts that say New York
or D.C. or *Everything on a Disposable
Kodak Camera.*
Tired of the idea, I threw the page
over the edge, hoping to drown
it in green, but I never heard it hit
the water. I braced myself on a life
ring rack, leaned over,
and watched it settle into a natural
barge of dead leaves and orange peels
while sea foam circled
it like a bed skirt that’s only
noticed for the few seconds spent stripping
down before going to sleep
just to wake up to rain on the Royal Sonesta,
kids racing down the hall, the obligatory
alarm clock,
and the black trumpeter’s groove
four floors down.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
I think
your back still arcs
like a feather.
But I still called you *****
from time to time.
When you put your eyeliner
on, I thought of different dreary places
where darkness could reside
peacefully.
Dream catchers litter too many of the beds
we have occupied.
When I hear about your new best friend,
I want him to know that you
know how to pull teeth out with your tongue.
The creamy bowl of the clouds
laundered the sky, pulling pollution
against the washboard of our love;
and your legs were always open underneath the table,
waiting for my fingers
jaundiced by nicotine.
Sometimes u didn't know if
no
was the right word.
No
was the right word.
it would have retained
both of our
sanity's
even in vanity.
It seems that
no
is the better kind of stain
than
yes
and all of its incumbent pain.
No
would have been better
than twenty-five feet of intestines
being tugged constantly..
Better then
the peeping heart
and
broken warbles.
Better than matinees.
Better than
runways
and
leaving landing gear
on my heart.
Better than
love itself.
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
It's a washboard of broken dreams,
A smile of stars,
Road signs that have never tried to speak,
Can this moonlight engulf us?
Roads tear up what wasn't empty land,
Love is a growing tree, with knots,
And our feet bleed from walking,
Like her heart from all his talking,
Butterflies with extra wings,
With a painful reality, why do the birds sleep while we lie awake?
The stars don't tell much,
But that look on your face,
It sure does.
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 8:57 PM UTC
While the purple martin
Sings his dawn song
The bush crickets
With their scraping chirps
Form a washboard percussion
Beneath an orchestra
Of crinkling goosefoot.
It is not the sobriety of
This great Weald
And the stately occlusal
Of her tall trees
That crowds your soul.
But the ordinariness
Of the things beneath it
That make you want
To find your own voice.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:31 PM UTC
steady battle of wills
mine against the culture
society at large
waiting for the return
of an imaginary friend –
visions of the Christ-head
waking Christians with a start
yet the image they see
is a white hippy
long flowing locks
and washboard abs
blue eyed devil
was what the natives called that image –
if Jesus were real
and the gospel, truth
then woolen hair
bronze skinned
north African
negros
would be visiting people nightly
giving them images of peace
and transcendence –
yet the visions these Christians are having
is of the rapture
is the end of days
of themselves being covered in joy
and carried away
by the loving god of old…
but it is the blue eyed devil
sending these signals –
I spent two years
in full research mode
then, 25 years of revisiting
so I could effectively combat
the religious intolerance I see around me
learning the scripture
not for love of Jesus
but for contempt of his hypocrite followers
now, I watch in awe
awestricken
as it is in fact an awesome thing
to think that a group of individuals
could persecute their brethren
based on race, *** gender,
class, tattoos, piercings, abortions,
differing ideology, ice cream flavor,
car style, bank of choice, haircut,
military service, church participation,
education, geographic birth place…
I could go on
and on
and on…
……………………..
the larger point
is that the sermon on the mount
accepts everyone as blessed
the message of Jesus is one of acceptance
and tolerance
of love, and of heaven everlasting
for those who follow that message…..
sorry American Christian
with your prophetic visions
brought to you by a
blue eyed devil,
you picked the wrong horse –
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
i just wanted to dance
so close to the stage
that the dj could spit
right in my ******* eye
shaking it
so loose and hard
that people would talk about
that guy at the show
i wanted to make friends
that would remember my name
when i bumped into them
broad daylight
middle of 6th
"ALLEN!!!"
i wanted my girlfriends hands
around my hips
kissing my neck
and screaming
WOOOOOOOOOO
but really
i would have settled
i would have settled for
something quiet
i could cross my legs
sip a coffee
puff a cigarette
and listen intently to
some jangley classical guitarist
or a professional washboard player
or anything other than what i had to hear
it wasnt music
instead
instead of any of it
i trod the streets
behind my party
alone more or less
feet bleeding in search
of the elusive "show"
i never danced
i stood or sat
slumped
wondering where she was
skin crawling for a kiss
thanks for dropping me off mom
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
Something aside of the things that have come
falls on your head and you're suddenly numb
Waiting for nothing, there's nothing in sight
no one can tell you to pick up the fight
So many voices are carrying words
even my own become lost, go unheard
It's taken me longer perhaps than it should
to let understanding wash over the good
I need the water as much as you do
I'll take a sip and the rest is for you
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC